


Too Ghoul For School

by vanceypants



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Ghost Sex, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Rich not surviving the fire, Smut, Trans Rich Goranski, Underage Sex, expensive headphones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 03:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15548988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanceypants/pseuds/vanceypants
Summary: Rich may not have survived the fire, but he can sure survive a good dicking.An alternate universe where Rich died in the fire.  Naturally such a plot thread requires gratuitous beanbag chair sex.





	Too Ghoul For School

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently at 3 am I decided this needed to exist. Just a short work, in a universe I'll likely explore down the line with further, less sexual ways. For now, though, have some illogical ghost sex.

There were too many days where Rich wished he’d known Michael, really gotten to know him, before the fire. He’d wasted so many moments of his life shoving him into lockers and calling him idiotic names, when he could have been sitting on his dick and calling him beautiful.

“Damn, bitch, you live like this?” Rich gasped, as he sank down against Michael’s cock. His own body--or maybe it wasn’t a body, so much as some ectoplasm mockery of a body--ached in a familiar way, as living cock was surrounded by ghost pussy.

Ghost pussy. That was a hell of a name for some alternative queercore lesbian band. He needed to chalk that up in his big book of ideas that he’d never be able to manifest into reality.

“What are you talking about?” Michael’s arms were looped around him, hands still holding the Nintendo control he’d been manipulating before Rich had phased through the wall and kicked off his silvery, translucent jeans and worked the button open on Michael’s sadly not translucent denim ones. Rich leaned forward, biting his ear, and he heard with satisfaction the control clatter to the basement floor.

Michael shifted against the beanbag chair, as Rich settled into a slow rhythm over his hips. He looked down, watching the way his skin was just pale enough to make out Michael’s dark cock buried into his cunt, moving within the confines of his body.

It was so fucking hot. Rich knotted his hands into the fabric of Michael’s hoodie and bit his own lip so sharply that he was certain he’d have drawn blood if he had any left.

“Fucking a ghost? Pretty sick, bro.”

“Well,” Michael trailed off, his hands hovering for a moment over Rich’s lower back. He seemed to do that a lot, hesitate before he touched him. Maybe he was worried that the strange solidity of Rich’s body would abruptly change, that he’d sink through him the same way that Rich was able to cast himself through every other object in the basement he’d settled himself into haunting.

Sexual Haunting. That could be a band name too. Less queercore dyke, more early 00s pop punk or some shit. He needed to share that with Michael too. Michael would be able to classify it under a better genre.

He was so good at that. Rich beamed, a sudden rush of pride at his boyfriend’s many facets flooding him almost as deeply as Michael’s cock.

“Well, you know. I couldn’t help it.”

“Just tripped and had your dick fall in me?”

“You came and sat on me! I was perfectly content, eating pellets and running from…”

Another trail off, a look of brief uncertainty.

Rich giggled. “Ghosts?”

“Well, they’re not as cute as you.” Michael’s hands finally made contact, the heat of his palms kneading into Rich’s ass. Michael’s body heat always reminded Rich how cold his own body was, and some days it was too startling for him to do much more than cuddle against him, cry over his own lack of life despite bringing his end of existence onto himself.

Today, though, was a good day. A good boner day.

A Good Boner Day wouldn’t make a great name for a band, he decided, but it was obscure enough that Michael would probably listen to it anyway.

He was openminded like that. Rich nuzzled his nose against Michael’s.

“What about Clyde?”

“Clyde is my husband, it’s true. But you can be my mistress.”

Rich’s nose creased a bit at the gendered name, and though their features were too close with their position for him to see it (as Rich changed from nose touches to resting their foreheads together), Michael somehow seemed to read him anyway.

“Or, uh, master. Master’s a boy mistress, right?”

Mmm. Being Michael Mell’s master. That was fucking hot. All the same, he said, “I think the correct term is just hoe.”

Except that was gendered too, right? Man, this world was fucked up and totally gay. Why couldn’t a boy be a hoe too? Rich drew back.

“That’s pretty fucked, right?”

“Huh?” Michael said, all breath and blush and he was so CUTE it was stupid! It was stupid that anyone could monopolize adorability like that.

“Like, the double standard or whatever. Frankly, if I want to be a hoe-”

“Rich. Rich, baby, I’m about to bust a nut in your ethereal cunt, I really can’t talk about the patriarchy right now.” 

“Oh right.” Rich traced his lips on Michael’s, his mouth scaldingly alive. His hands settled on his shoulders, as he continued to ride that cock for all it was worth. “But it’s still fucked.”

“You’re fucked.” 

“Like literally?”

“So literally, man. Way fucked. The fuckiest.”

“Yeah,” Rich squeaked, as Michael began to stroke his clit in time with their thrusts. His thumb glided over him with such precision, even as Rich became increasingly aware of the videogame soundtrack to their tomfoolery.

Tom Foolery would be a good stage name for some sort of bizarre accordion tribute band or something. 

Why did he have to get these stupid ideas when he was so heavyheaded with lust? Rich buried his face against Michael’s neck, and focused on how deeply he could take him.

“Fuck,” Rich groaned. “Fuck, I love you.”

“Yeah. Ditto.” Michael sighed as Rich sucked on his collarbone. “I mean I love you too. Sorry, hard to...the talking thing.”

“Yeah. Good band name.”

“Huh?”

“The Talking Thing.”

“Not your best,” Michael mused. “But not terrible. Probably a...a...synth, maybe. Gotta think about it.”

And with that, he was cumming inside of him, stuck on band considerations and ghostly affections and the tinny sound of the repetitive Pac-Man theme accentuating their moans.

Rich wouldn’t last much longer. And damn, what a way to live, feeling more alive in death than he ever had before.


End file.
